Shattered Reality
by RozBen
Summary: Legolas is thrown into another world when he completes a puzzle created by a dark wizard, unbeknowest to him. Legolas must find a way back to his own world, if this new one doesn't kill him for "impersonating" the late prince Legolas. Aragorn must find a way to save his friend from this new world and find himself trapped along with him.
1. Crowned Prince

This concept of fan fiction was created by SkyleafAlchemist1, whom has given their permission for me to use.

I do not own Lord of the Rings, or the concept of this particular fan fiction.

* * *

The darkness had gathered around relatively early that night, and Legolas found himself perched in a tall oak tree, green leaves shifting softly in the breeze above him. His back was pressed against the trunk, his bag on his lap and bow in his hands. The moon hung low in the sky, stars beginning to appear, a grey-white fog rolling in along the ground. There was a dampness in the air that spoke of foul weather. He ran his fingers along the engravings on his bow. Most he himself had made, but there were two that he hadn't. Gimli had carved a pair of axes along the inside of the bow, and Aragorn had fashioned a leaf inside a crown. He had not noticed until after the battle at Helm's Deep.

He looked up at the sky, head resting against the tree. Tomorrow he would arrive in Mirkwood, his home. Tomorrow, he would once again be expected to fallow the confing traditions and social customs of his people; he would have to set the standard and not disappoint his father or dishonor his family's name. He would be watched, his every move analyzed and very possibly criticized. Tomorrow began the rest of his life as the Crowned Prince.

He let his head hang, feeling the comfort the tree tried to provide. He silently thanked it, and returned the pressure of his own aura to show his gratitude. He hated court life, the confusing twists and turns of politics and traditions. There were times he wished he had paid better attention growing up, like his brothers had. How he, the youngest, had been chosen as Crowned Prince, was beyond him. Surely one of his elder brothers would be better fitted for such a responsibility. His father, though, never elaborated as to why he had been chosen. He looked down at his hands once more, turning the bow over. On his wrist was a birth mark, something nearly unheard of in the elf world. It was that of a small leaf, looking as though it were being blown in the wind.

A light mist began.

The tree shifted its limbs more closely together above his head, sheltering him from the worst of it. He pulled his hood up, rearranging the cloak about him to cover himself better. The rain might not make him cold, but it did pose the risk of becoming ill.

He settled, allowing himself to relax. At least, thanks to this madness his father was insistent upon, he'd see his friends, and his brother of heart, Aragorn. He would never admit to his missing of Gimli's biting remarks or sly comments, nor of his wants for the pranks of Merry and Pippin. He could say, easily enough, that he missed Froto's questions and Sam's quiet observations about elvish palace life. He would also openly admit that he missed his best friend, Aragorn. They were brothers of the heart, of the very soul. Gandalf was even said to make an appearance.

Perhaps he'll show off with those fireworks of his, Legolas thought with a sarcastic inner voice. He wasn't the type for magic, or very often its users. But there was something about the old man that he liked, even if he was too smart for his own good.

The darkness and lack of animal-made noise lulled him to a light sleep, the trees whispering about the refreshing water and promises of watching for danger. He could pretend that he wasn't about to sign away the rest of his immortal life away by having it publically announced of his being the Crowned Prince.

-XX-

The next day, the air was moist and tasted like the blade of a sword. The sky was an angry, dark grey with a sharp, bitter wind that tore its fingers through his long hair. He hitched his bag higher onto his shoulder, walking along a near-invisible path. Tall, strong trees creaked in the wind with eerie ominous, though they could not tell him what was amiss. No orcs, they reassured him. No one meaning him harm.

He eyed the sky wearily. He had awoken that morning soaked clean through, as he knew he would. He was lucky to have had a single change of clothes that had survived the rain with but the slightest of wet spots. A sudden light caught the edge of his eye, and forced him to pick up his pace; lightening was never a good sign with so many trees about.

He came to the crest of the hill, pausing at the sight of his home. It sat above him on yet another hill, its castel walls so high, one might believe that they reach the stars if standing at the bottom. After the orc armies had dispersed, his father made it his priority that his people and children be safer more than ever, especially after the near-death of his elder brother at the hands of an orc general. Guards were posted at the front of entrance doors and along the tops of the walls.

He hitched his bag once more, feet aching and feeling suddenly very tired. He started down the hill and heard the commotion of a guard being told to run off and tell the others of his arrival. With such good eye-sight and hearing, he had known the other elves would have recognized him easily. The area was alive with muted browns and greens, animals scurrying behind the wood line. He picked up his pace once again, heading up the next hill. A loud rumble of thunder shook the wet ground as he met up with the guard on duty.

"Estellra," he nodded as he passed. There was small garden to greet guests in, the small flowers all closed due to the weather. He paused, drinking in the familiar sight. He loved this world of his, with fantastic friends and terrifying adventures and battles. He hated having to give it up, for a Crowned Prince does not go about on his own. He does not put himself at risk for whatever the reason. He was the heir, next in line for the throne should something happen.

The guard gave a bow at the waist, hand over his heart. "Prince Legolas. How was your patrol?"

"Uneventful." The guard gave an apologetic smile as he brushed past, "Have they arrived?"

"Yes sir. They are in the gardens, last I saw."

"Thank you." With their destination in mind, he skirted past the area without stopping to see if they were truly there. He needed a hot bath before he went to them. He hadn't eaten that morning, but did not feel hungry. Just sore and tired from sleeping up in the trees and moving at a brutal pace from Mirkwood, to its border and back in just four day's time, when it normally took eight on horseback.

He found himself in the halls of the palace, elegant paintings and statues dotting along the walls. The floor seemed to have been freshly polished, again, and it was relatively quiet. Servants were rushing about, getting various things into place and re-cleaning. Tonight, every important person in his father's kingdom were to arrive and pledge their loyalty to their Crowned Prince. The ceremony would take hours and the clothing would be excruciatingly heavy, with glittering jewels and markings. Just the though of the ceremonial robe made him grimace. And, worst yet, he wouldn't be allowed to slip away from the party at all - not even to change out of the robes.

At the sound of voices, Legolas paused. He knew the gruffness that was Gimli and the high-pitched babble of Pippin and Merry. Legolas pulled a face; surely they were not planning another prank on the poor dwarf. He shook his head. When would Gimli ever learn? He went to the study, a few door to his left and slipped inside. He had gathered a few herbs for Elron which were native to the surrounding woods but not in Rivendale. He placed them on the table, with a small note explaining to his father who it was for.

He was about to leave, satisfied, when something round wrapped in a blue cloth caught his eye. It was new to the study, and sitting on one of the shelves just at eye level. Curious, he grabbed it and opened it, revealing a small golden box. It was shockingly heavy and burned with cold in his hand; something told him to put it back but he didn't listen. There were various marking on each side, and had parts that twisted and moved. He recognized one of the markings from his brother's book on magic.

He decided it was a puzzle. Something that his father hadn't figured out yet. He ran his fingers along it, taking it out into the hall. He carefully moved the pieces around, grinning as they clicked into place.

"Legolas!" Merry chirped and he saw all of his friends at the hall's end. So it wasn't just Meryy, Pippin and Gimli; Aragorn, Froto and Sam were also with them.

He mumbled a greeting in returnm so caught up in the puzzle box, that it was barely autible and nothing more than an automatic mumble, without much emotion. There was a nagging dsence of urgency, his fingers flying along the golden engravings, twisting knobs and pressing buttons and switching levers, as though he knew exactly what he were doing-and it appeared as though he did. During this, hecould feel the awe and curisity from the hobbits, could sence the strange looks from Gimli and Aragorn. They watched wide-eyed and mute, in awe fasination.

With every click, every twist, he felt that he was getting closer to solving it. And he felt triumph as the last move neared, a smile spreading across his face. The excited chatter of Merry and Pippin was strangly distnat, though they stood a mere few feet in front of him. Then, there was a sound behind him. Momentarily startled and quiet dazed, Legolas felt himself being dragged away from the object in his hands. He fingered the last lever.

His head snapped up and he twisted slightly to look, seeing his father and a few of his Lord friends walking down twoards them. They had been laughing, seemingly amused by what Lord Elron, whose face was darkened slighly by a flush, had said or done. But then, the elevnking's face changed, having spotted what his son held, almost protectivly in his hands. Shock and horror shifted across Thranduil's features as he dashed down the corridor, hand flung outwards and formal robes billowing out behind him becuase of the sudden movement, "Legolas, don't-"

Click.


	2. Legolas's Death?

This concept of fan fiction was created by SkyleafAlchemist1, whom has given their permission for me to use.

I do not own Lord of the Rings, or the concept of this particular fan fiction.

* * *

A sudden, exceedingly bright light burned his sensitive eyes. On instinct alone, Legolas dropped the object and threw up an arm to sheild his eyes. Then, for a moment, everything was dark. Everything was silent. He felt as though he were floating in a river, the current dragging at him, pulling him to its end and having him obey its will.

A bitter cold wind blew up against his face, startling him, and he smelled wet ash and day old smoke. His stomached dropped as he felt like he was tumbling through open air, like he had been thrown from a horse. He forced his eyes open in time to see a blackened tree with no leaves just feet below, the ground rushing up to meet him.

_I am falling._

As he hit the dead, dried branches, his hands scrabbled to find purchase, breaking off several limbs in the process, to slow his decent. Fear was clouding his mind, becuase he knew that if he fell from this hieght he would break his neck, or worse. The branches cut into his soft palms, and arms, scratching his face and brusing his legs. His hand enclosed on a branch, and his shoulder was wrenched horribly. With a pounding heart, a sigh of relief escaped and his eyes shut on their own accord. A creaking sound made his head snap upwards, just in time to see the limb break under his weight.

He fell ten feet to his face, an arm under his chest. Groaning, he rolled onto his back, chest heaving and feeling slightly nauseaous. He took in his surroundings once they stopped spinning. He slowly stood, cradling his arm to his chesk. It pulsed with a hot pain, but he knew it wasn't broken. The sky was dark, stars shining through thin whisps of clouds.

_It had just been mid-morning,_ he thought in confusion. _How is it already night?_

For a moment, nothing around him made any sence. But slowly, his shocked mind made the connection. He twisted around, eyes searching everywhere at once. He felt panic clawing its way to the forefront of his mind. The trees. They had all been_ burned_, most of them to the ground.

Sharp, hot agony coursed through his very soul. His breath was stolen as sever dizzyness set in He dropped to his knees, eyes darting about faster and faster, but no longer really seeing. The _trees_, they were _gone._ He looked up at the tree behind him. It was so badly disfigured that he could hardly tell what type of tree it had been. It seethed with unnatural rage, which Legolas could taste, like blood on a blade. Tears formed in his eyes, heaving large breaths but not breathing. _Trees_. They were the most gentle of creatures. They knew not the pain and suffering of those around them. They merely provided comfort and shelter to anyone!

A cold, bitter wind picked up, howling through the valley, screaching in horrid agony of missing its friends and making him shutter. He looked back to the tree, whispering, "Mellon nin. What happened? Who did this?"

_Where am I? How did I get here? Who would do this?_

The branches swayed and crackled in the wind, threatening to break at the light pressure the wind gave. It hissed delcarations that were hoarse and gargled. As Legolas listened, his pale face turned ashen, twisting into agonized confusion. He almost failed in understanding, but he _knew_ that he had heard wrong. "Aragorn would_ never_ - "

The tree - Oak, he realized dumbly - brought its branches down with the sudden speed and ferocity of a giant, schreeching in anguish and betrayal. Leoglas barely dodged it in time, rolling down a slight slope, hands up in surrender, "P-Please! I do not understand! Aragorn is a dear friend of mine. He would never- "

The tree shrieked, suddenly straining against its roots, bloodlust emminating from it so strongly that Legolas stumbled backwards in numbed shock, eyes locked on it. He found himself staggaring an almost-familair looking pathway. He half-fell onto the main path, seeing not just any crest of a hill, the grass scortched and ground muddied.

_No_, he thought in horror, already rushing up the embankment, _No, please, no! Not Mirkwood!_ His hopes shattered and his knees buckled, his insides tearing apart at the sight. He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head and trying not to believe what he was seeing. The mere though sent his head reeling and his stomach twisting, his heart aching in the most painful way possible. Above him, setting on the second hill, sat his home.

Or, at least, what was left of it.

The walls were crumbling, smashed and leaning at odd angles. Shrouded in mist and fog, it looked like a forgotten, century old mosoleum. It looked completly deserted. With his keen eyesight, he had seen smears of blood and peices of armour scattered along the outside of the castel. Elven armour. Grief crashed down around him, nearly drowing him choking sorrow. He was on the very edge of losing the battle within himself, when the tree began to sing, off key and quite insanly, of misery and murder, of defeat and of lost survivors.

He, Prince Legolas of Mirkwood, son of the elevn King Thranduil, did not know the word defeat. He pushed down evey emotion, sliding a marbel lid overtop. He would let the grief come in time. On weakened and trembling legs, he stood. With a heavy heart and hurting shoulder, he began to walk, slowly picking up his pace as he went. _Survivors. There could be survivors. There has to be!_

He ran full tilt down the rest of the hill and mounted the next with the same neck-break speed. His pack bounced painfully on his shoulder, his arrows rocking in their quiver. His sword weight down his right side and his bow slipped into the palm of his bleeding hand. He was glad he hadn't, somehow, lost them in the fall. He nearly slipped in the mud several times, just barely catching himself each time.

He reached the front gate, seeing blood enrusted atop the mud, so dark and rich despite it being dried. He stopped short of the first pool of it, just feet away from the gate. Just a half-hour ago, he had been greeted by the gaurd named Estellra. His wife had just given birth to twins, a rareity in the elvish world. Hesitantly, he crept forward, going around the smears of blood and careful not to step in any of it. Just the thought made him want to retch.

He walked into the recpetion garden. There were no budding flowers, no growing saplings, no leaves or vines, not even weeds. The fountain, which was off to the side and agianst the wall, where he had spent time reading when he was young, was crushed under a bolder, fallen bows and arrows trampled around it. Fog curled around his knees, too thick to see the ground. It was damp, and it was cold. The place smelled of fear and death, of desperation and violence. The dim moonlight gave off littl light. There was an unnatural stillness and quiet about the place that had his teeth on edge.

_Attacked,_ he forced himself to think, to work through the denial and pain. He tried to surpress the images his mind was trying to conjure. _My people had been attacked. By the Valar!...Why? _

_WHY?!_

-XX-

He had searched every room in the castel, stables and guest apartments, buy the time the sun had risen. He leaned against a wall for support while watching the sun rise, tears shimmering in her eyes. He slid down, crumpling and trying surpress the grief. There had been no one. No bodies, no elves. No animals, no trees. From what he could gather, from the amour and fallen weapons, it hadn't been orcs.

It had been Men.

He shook his head, blond locks of hair swinging wildly. He bit his lip hard enough to make it bleed. He looked up at the sun rise and sucked in a ragged breath, tears slipping down his cold cheeks, and stinging the cuts, _What if my brothers are dead? My Ada? What if my friends had perished, as well? Why did Men attack us? We had been allies for many years now. _He squeezed his eyes shut, head resting against the wall,_ I don't understand_.

It had been Aragorn, the Oak's words whispered in his ear.

He made a fist, his fingers digging into the jagged wound on his hand. He had yet to treat it, but it had stopped bleeding. The pain forced his mind away from the darker places. _No_. His brother of the soul would never - _never!_ - do such a thing! That was the truth, he knew. He pulled his hood up, the sun suddenly too bright for his eyes.

The sound of horses drew his attention. He scrambled to his feet, wiping his tears and looked out the hoses were dark in color, the riders having their hoods up. But he knew by their weapons and by the way that they seperated, looking and scavenging fallen elen weapons, that they were not elves.

Men.

His insides lurched before the blood rage set in. It boiled under his faire skin and churned in his deep eyes, hate flaring in his gut so sharp and hot that he thought he might burst into flames at any given moment. He strung his bow with three arrows without thinking, aimed. All three hit their mark. The men fell and he was ready with three more arrows before the men could react.

Down, went another three.

The men dismounted and ran for cover, trying to find where the arrows were coming from. There was easily another thirdteen of them, and he kept firing. Every arrow hit its intended target until there were only five. His next shot caught a man in the face, making him crumple sideways and into a large puddle, sending up a spray of watery redness.

He notched another two arrows, only to be tackled from the side.

His bow skidded across the cracked and dusty floor, far from his reach. His head hit the ground with a sick noise and his world exploded in white hot pain. He struggled with the man atop of him, throwing a near-blind punch and landing it. He brought his legs up and kicked the man off, rolling to his feet, watching as his assailant held his face, still covered by a hood. His hand came away slick with blood. The man charged, fist raised.

Hands grabbed him from behind, so he threw the assailant over his shoulder. The man rolled into a crocuh, holding his shoulder and snarling. Legolas then got his knee kicked out by yet another attacker from behind. The pain was near mind numbing, making him drop to his knees as hands held him in an iron grip, wrenching his arms behind his back and tying them.

The original attacker walked up to him with the authority of a king and ripped Legolas's hood down to expose his face. The world tilted around him, the edges blurring. The man stilled, a shocked, sharp intake of breath emminating from him. His whole body locked, going ridgid, as though he had just been slapped.

"What is this?"

Relief sank into the elen prince's body as he heard the voice of his brother, as the man pulled down his hood. "Aragorn. Thank the Valar!"

A blow caught him with enough force to rock him onto his heels and taste fresh blood. Dizzyness swept up within him and he couldn't connect what was happening. Aragorn garbbed his friend by the hair and forced him to half-stand, and snarled in a low voice, "How dare you wear his face?"

Legolas felt as though ice had been shoved down into his soul, staring at his friend in fear and pain. Aragon's hatred was thick enough to smell and Legolas found himself shying away from him. There was numbed fear in his voice, as he winced, "Wear whose face?! I am Legolas! Mellon nin, don't tell me you've lost your memory falling into another ravine."

Argorn put a blade against his throat, and he felt the stinging kiss of it slicing a bit into his skin. There was a killing intent in his brother's eyes and Legolas's captors tightened their grip as he winced away. Aragorn growled, "You have but one minute to prove it. Good luck, though. My friend, Prince Legolas, _died weeks ago_."


	3. Awake

This concept of fan fiction was created by SkyleafAlchemist1, whom has given their permission for me to use.

I do not own Lord of the Rings, or the concept of this particular fan fiction.

* * *

Legolas felt his body begin to tremble. His knees began to ache, being pressed against the cold stone floor, as he stared into Aragorn's silver eyes. Never before had those eyes stared at him with such hateful loathing, such cold intensity. Never before had his Mellon nin - the man he called brother and defended in battle - hurt him.

The eleven prince's mind was spinning, as though glued to a top Multiple thoughts and ideas came to mind, to try to explain and understand and _stop_, what had happened thus far, and what was still happening. He tried to force down the rise of choking panic, though it was clear in his voice, "I-I am Legolas, Mellon nin! I sswear to it by the Valar!"

The blade dug slightly deeper into his exposed neck, sending a shock of fresh pain through him. But a softness had edged its way into Aragorn's eyes. A deep churning of guilt and despair, only half concealed now. The man's voice was rough with emotion, "Do not lie to me!"

"I-I can prove it! Ask me anything. Anything!" Legolas pleaded. His brother was hurting on the inside, truly believing he was dead. How, he did not know. But he knew he needed to calm his friend down long enough to calm him, to reassure him.

Aragorn retracted the blade only slightly, but it was enough to send a small burst of hope along Legolas's already-frayed nerves. "Then tell me what it is I had carved into your bow, and when."

"A leaf, inside a crown," Legolas said eagerly. He nodded his head in the direction of his fallen weapon. "It is on that very bow, Aragorn. On the inside, where you carved it above the two axes Gimli had engraved. We decided it to be the sign of the fellowship, and were going to engrave them onto our leaf pendants that held out cloaks about our shoulders. I only noticed it after the battle for Helm's Deep."

The man pulled the blade away fully, but did not response, nor did he tell the others to release Legolas. The blonde elf watched as his friend bent to pick up the fallen Cu', fingers grazing over the markings and eyes alighting in wonder.

The man stared down at him for what seemed to be a century before asking, "How? How is it that you're alive? I watched you -" He cut off, eyes shimmering.

"The last thing I remember, is playing with that golden puzzle box I had found in my father's study," Legolas said quietly. Exhaustion dragged its claws deep in his muscles, throughout his entire body, reminding him of every injury. His body felt bruised and his very soul was sore from all the shock and horror he had witnessed in the past few hours.

"That was before the ceremony," Aragorn dropped down to his knees in front of him. The men released their hold and dizziness swept over Legolas. Aragorn gathered his friend up into his arms, tears in his eyes, "You had been poisoned. Nothing Ada or I had done had any effect! You...you choked on your own blood." His grip on Legolas tightened painfully, but the elf did not voice the complaint. He merely held onto Aragorn, hoping the shuttering would subside soon. He was nauseous enough already.

With his head resting on Aragorn's shoulder, he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep that his body desperately needed.

-Xx-

He awoke to the sounds of birds chirping merrily and the rustle of papers. His eyelids felt very heavy and he could just imagine them ripping if he opened them. He scrubbed a hand over his face, suppressing a groan of discomfort. Morning. He had loved mornings. Now, though, he hated it with a passion. His body ached terribly, and he felt a roll of discomfort in his stomach.

"Are you awake, Mellon nin?" The voice was very soft, as though the owner were afraid he was still asleep and didn't want to wake him if he were.

He rolled onto his side, squinting in the light. He frowned as he spotted the crown atop his friend's head and the fine fabric in which he were clothed. Had they gone back to Gon Dor while he was asleep? If so, his Mellon nin should be in his throne room, working with his advisors over some matter that was important.

"Shouldn't you be working?" The scratchiness and hoarseness of his voice shocked him. The room around him was made of glimmering golds and vibrant greens, with white trimmings. There was a desk to the right of the bed, at which Aragorn sat. He himself lay in an over-sized bed, even by royal standards and was wearing a pale green, silk nightshirt. The bedposts were made of dark wood, with carvings of animals winding their way to the top. There was a canopy with a picture of the valley.

From before it had been destroyed.

"I am. I'm making sure a troublesome elf is staying in bed and resting."

But he hadn't heard Aragorn's answer. The thought sent a chill through Legolas. He had to know what had happened to his family, to the others of his kind, and to the forest. The oak tree's whispers rang through his head as his brother in spirit pressed a goblet with cool water into his fingers -which were wrapped in bandages.

He sipped, the cool water soothing his throat, "I'm not the one who falls off of cliffs, or into ravines."

"Your injuries suggest otherwise," Aragorn frowned. He knew the look his friend was giving him; Aragorn had a reason to be worried. "The cuts on your hands had become infected, and you nearly ripped your shoulder out of place. What had happened?"

He handed the cup back, "I fell."

"From where?" His friend's eyebrows raised high.

He thought back, but came up blank. There had been no window, or balcony. No horse or catapult. Nothing. And yet, he fell into the top of a very, very tall tree.

"There was a bright light and then I fell atop a tree. It was an oak. It told me...You're not going to believe this. I don't believe it myself, honestly. It told me that...that _you_ burned the forest down, Aragorn." He watched the way his Mellon nin had stiffened, and pressed forward. "What happened to my home, Mellon nin? Are my brothers alive? My Ada? Where are my people? Please, you must tell me."

Aragorn looked down and away, and Legolas was about to start demanding that he tell him everything, when there was a knock on the door.


	4. Bits and Peices

This concept of fan fiction was created by SkyleafAlchemist1, whom has given their permission for me to use.

I do not own Lord of the Rings, or the concept of this particular fan fiction.

Sorry for not updating sooner; _busy, busy past two weeks._

Yes. Legolas is in another demension. But, he doesn't know that~~! Bad!Aragorn will stay as Aragorn; Good!Aragorn will be referred as Estel.

* * *

Aragorn looked down and away, and Legolas was about to start demanding that he tell him everything, when there was a knock on the door. Aragorn gave an apologetic smile and said, "Enter."

The door was pushed open and three familair faces walked in: Faramir, Eowyn, and Boromir. Faramir had his head bent over a page in a black-bound leather book. His hair was as curly as ever, falling into his face as he read. Eowyn also had her bent over the book, silently reading along with him, her own golden hair tied into a braid.

Boromir was the only one whose attention wasn't already occupied. His eyes went straight to Legolas, who was now sitting upright and propped against the pillows. The man seemed to have paled considerably when he caught sight of the elvish prince. "How...?"

Faramir and Eowyn both looked up, though there was no surprise in their expressions, as though they had already known of him being there. Aragorn jumped to his feet, stepping between his newest advisor and best friend. He hissed in a low tone, "Now is not the time, Boromir. He's just barely recovered from his fall. We will discuss this all later."

What Legolas didn't know was that, since the death of their father, Boromir and Faramir had agreed that Aragorn take on the role as leader. They had only wanted to help Aragorn get revenge for Legolas's murder and had thought the added numbers would help the elvenking see reason. They hadn't expected, however, for Aragorn to launch a full on assult of Mirkwood and all of its occupants. Most had escaped to Rivendale, where they could not attack, though their men had killed at least twenty elves in the process.

Since then, Aragorn had changed. He had slowly decended into a fierce madness that swept up his own torment and agony, and flung it at anyone who opposed him. When the dwarves showed their alliance with the elves to be stronger than that with the men, Aragorn had thrown a fit so horrible, he had ten dwarves beheaded in his throne room. That was after locking Gimli up in the dongeon, after the dwarf refused to move into Gon Dor on his own accord.

Aragorn only wanted to keep his friend safe, and if the blasted, thick-headed dwarf wouldn't listen to sencible reason, he'd be force to comply.

One brother knew the Aragorn they loved like family was still inside their leader, while the other had decided that it was high time he made up fro his mistake, and help the other races any way he could. Some would call him a traitor.

Legolas's keen hearing heard what Aragorn said, and he felt something within him shift yet again. There was something _wrong_ with all of this. In all the time he had known Aragorn, the man had never once kept anything from him, even if it had been the terrible reality. Then the thought of his brothers and Ada being dead crept into the back of his mind. His whole body locked at the thought.

"Aragorn, _what happened_? Tell me!" A distant part of him noticed that Eowyn had never before worn a braid, and that Faramir's hair was a shade darker than ususal and shorter by a few inches. Also, Aragorn seemed taller than he remembered. But he was so focused on his friend that he did not take heed to these differences.

Aragorn looked down at him, saddness clear in his eyes. "Do not worry yourself, Mellon nin. Your father and brothers live. The... survivors of Mirkwood fled to Rivendale after...the attack."

"_Survivors_?" Legolas's eyes narrowed dangerously, "How many were killed? Who were killed?" Aragorn seemed to hesistate and Legolas demanded, "Tell me, Aragorn! How many?"

His friend seemed to sink within himself, "Twenty. Mostly gaurds, whose names I do not know. There...is no sign of who had launched the attack. But there were six whose names I did. Estrella, Miko, Della, Ryia, Kino, and...my beloved Arwen."

With every name, Legolas felt himself flinch away from his friend, as though they were physical blows. The quiet of the room buzzed in his ears like thousands of honey bees. A tighteness in his chest made itself known he when he couldn't seem to draw in enough air, his head spinning usddenly from the loss and tidle way of memories that crashed against his raw emotions.

Estrella. The gaurd whose temper, when somehow provoked from its deep slumber within his being, was unmatched by any man, dwarf or elf. The elf who had always a smile, and who loved to whistle in the early morning, much to the annoyance of the others around him.

Miko. An archer who loved to run along the castel rooftops, flinging himself into the air to be caught by the trees or other rooftop. More bird than elf, Miko loved to frighten people with his insane and death-defying antics, but knew well enough when the joke was taken too far, or if danger was afoot.

Della. A maiden servant who looked after the horses. He did not know her as well as he would have hoped, but had known enough that she was too gentle of a soul to be caught up in any battle. She may very well have died trying to protect an elfling or animal.

Ryia. The only healer who knew how to kill using the same arts as to heal. She was an extrodinary fighter, and even better the assasian. His Ada had always warned him to stay on Ryia's good side, for she could kill any one of them and leave no trace of the crime - not even, it seemed, a body.

Kino. One of his father's advisor's. An elf he himself was not fond of, but knew the death would be a blow to the council.

Arwen. By the Valar. Legolas looked ujp into his friend's eyes, seeing a soul so lost in torment that it had weakened. The elf prince threw off his covers and pulled his friend into a tight embrace, swearing to him, "We will find the men responsible for this, and I swear, we shall make them suffer a punishment worse than death before allowing them to perish."

He felt his friend stiffen as he spoke, but only thought it was the resolve his friend was so well known for, finally returning.

He couldn't be more wrong.

-Xx-

_Weeks earlier._

_After witnessing the violent death of his brother-in-all-but-blood, Aragorn found himself sitting beside the body, which had been cleaned of blood and changed into funeral clothing. His brother's skin was so deathly pale, and his eyes were shut, proving that he wasn't merely sleeping. Already, his body had turned cold but they were to wait another hour before burial._

_When the moon was at its highest, the gates of the Halls were said to be found the easiest._

_A blackness had opened within him, swirling with temptations and rage. Tears streamed down his unwashed face. Still, he himself had blood washed against his face and hands, his clothing and shoes. He had refused to leave his Mellon nin's side, even against his Ada's wishes. The elvenking had thrown himself into his chambers, and refused to allow anyone inside._

_What right did his brother's father have to run away from the grief? He should be one of those sitting beside Leoglas's deathbed, mourning a horrible loss with the tears of a father. Not the diginty of a king._

_..._

_Three days afterwards, Argron was atop a mount in the evening, stars beginning to show. Not only had the elevnking not allowed him to attend the burial, but he had also banished Aragorn from Mirkwood, claiming it had been a man who had posioned his son. Aragorn knew otherwise; it had been an elevn counciler. The elvenking refused to listen, warning that if he returned, he would be beheaded and his body left to rot in Orc territory._

_He grabbed a torch from his subordinate before urging his horse to run. He lifted the flames to the branches, and they began to eat away at the trees. His men launched flaming arrows twoards the night sky, before they landed among the brush and roots._

_He turned back to his men, a cold breeze shifting the air around them. "For Legolas!"_

_There was a mighty cheer before they rushed the hill, taking the newly-found enemies by total surprise._


End file.
